


stranded in sheridan

by dykejaskiers



Series: Gobblepot Holiday High Jinks 2019 [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Flirting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Oh No There's Only One Room Left, Sharing a Room, Snowed In, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, whatever shall we do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21647590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykejaskiers/pseuds/dykejaskiers
Summary: “Well, there’s– there’saroom, yes, but there’s just a little– problem, uh, which is that it’s, uh, reserved–”“Reserved?” Oswald asks, tapping his fingers against the handle of his cane in an impatient rhythm. “Reserved to whom?”“Well, uh–”
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Series: Gobblepot Holiday High Jinks 2019 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559254
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	stranded in sheridan

**Author's Note:**

> my gotham blog on tumblr is over at queergordon, feel free to drop by!

“Surely, you have _a room_ available? This isn’t exactly the Ritz, is it?” Oswald insists, glaring at the receptionist behind the counter of the frankly below-subpar roadside motel his car had decided to stutter to a stop in front of. 

It’s far enough in the middle of nowhere that no sane cab driver will come pick him up, and the roadside assistance number had told Oswald in no uncertain terms that they’d come by the following day to help him, but it was a Sunday, and they’d closed already, and besides – it was “snowing too damn hard.”

Which leaves Oswald with little to no choice but the motel. 

The receptionist bites his lip, glancing somewhere behind him, like maybe he’s hoping someone will come bail him out of the situation. “Well, there’s– there’s _a_ room, yes, but there’s just a little– problem, uh, which is that it’s, uh, reserved–”

“Reserved?” Oswald asks, tapping his fingers against the handle of his cane in an impatient rhythm. “Reserved to whom?”

“Well, uh–”

The receptionist – his name tag, Oswald sees, reads Oliver – is interrupted by a man walking in through the front doors, bringing with him a flurry of snow and a gust of biting wind.

“By him,” Oliver finishes weakly. 

Oswald’s nostrils flare as he whips to look at the stranger. He’s dressed in a dark blue suit, and wearing a hideous, crooked Christmas tie with reindeer on it. His hair’s flat from the snow; when he moves to run his fingers through it, it curls in mild waves. 

He’s on the phone, arguing with someone – as he walks closer, Oswald can hear him say, “No, it’s fine, you can pick me up tomorrow morning – I said it’s _fine_ , Harvey, you’re not getting a DUI because of me.”

Oswald’s eyes narrow as the man joins him by the counter, flashing a pained looking smile at Oliver, who returns it dimly and then glances nervously at Oswald. “No, no, no, don’t call Barbara, she’s in Canada – and besides, as if she’d agree to come get me.” The man rolls his eyes at something said on the other end of the line. “Uh-huh. Go to sleep, Harv. I’ll manage.” 

He disconnects before getting a reply, and pockets his phone. “Sorry,” he says to Oliver. “Triple A won’t come by tonight, weather’s too bad.”

“It’s okay,” Oliver squeaks. “Just– well, I, the gentleman here came by asking for a room while you were out, but of course, you were here first–”

It’s only then, as Oswald lets out an indignant huff, that the man turns to look at him. Oswald stares back, head tilted and eyes narrowed. “My car broke down, as well,” he says in lieu of a greeting, pursing his lips.

“Oh,” the man says. He eyes Oswald. “You’re not getting help until the morning, either?”

Oswald resists the urge to grit his teeth. “Evidently not,” he hisses, gesturing towards the massive windows on the front of the building – the snow’s coming down heavier than before. “And there are no rooms left available–”

“You can share mine,” the man interrupts, and it’s surprising enough that Oswald falls silent. The man continues, “I mean, it’d be nice to split the bill, anyhow.”

Oswald struggles for words for a few seconds, before clearing his throat. “That would be most kind of you…”

“Jim. Jim Gordon.”

“... Mr. Gordon. I can’t thank you enough–”

Gordon waves his compliment aside. “Don’t worry about it – it’s the least I can do after hogging the last room.”

They sort out the payment while Oliver does his best to apologise profusely for the situation. Oswald’s knee is starting to ache from the cold, and he grips his cane tighter. He has phone calls to make, deals to hone – he’s not certain what kind of a man Jim Gordon is, but he’d estimate that no matter what, he wouldn’t quite approve of Oswald calling for someone to be killed for incompetence while he’s trying to sleep in the same room.

Miserable luck, he thinks – and then Oliver asks, “Uh, wh– would you like two singles or–?”

Oswald scowls heavily. “Yes, _obviously–_ ”

“Obviously?” Gordon asks, an amused smile playing on his lips.

Oswald’s frown deepens, but he stays silent, merely raising a critical brow at the offensive reindeer tie. Gordon glances at it, and straightens it out somewhat sheepishly just as Oliver hands out their key for room 208.

It's tiny and badly lit, with two beds, and a single, uncomfortable looking chair situated in front of an empty desk. The table lamp doesn't seem to be working. Oswald might’ve described it as _cozy,_ were he in any other situation but this. As it stands, it's a necessary evil. 

Gordon walks in first, drops his duffel bag by the bed furthest away from the door, and sits down with a weary sigh.

Oswald can certainly relate to the feeling. He closes the door behind him and places his suitcase out of sight between his bed and the wall. As he sits down, the bed creaks loudly in warning. Wind has picked up outside, which makes the walls groan and the window panes shake ever so slightly. 

It’s so loud, Oswald might as well get ready for a night of little to no sleep. Which is fine, really, and not entirely new – and regardless, he’ll be calling for assistance with his car as soon as the snow clears, which he hopes will be early, and so staying up isn’t really that terrible of an idea.

He’s about to go change into something slightly more comfortable, when Gordon speaks. 

“So, what are you doing in Wyoming?” He asks.

Oswald looks his way, and finds Gordon lying down on his bed, arms crossed behind his head. His shoes are neatly placed next to each other on the floor, and his jacket’s resting on the back of the chair. 

Oswald thinks about the mess he left behind in Idaho, the one that has him cutting through these parts on his way back home to the East Coast - avoidable mistakes by people who should've known better. Now dead, of course. Not exactly an icebreaker. He bites the inside of his cheek, and lets out a noncommittal hum. “Work.”

“Oh. Me too.” 

Oswald almost says, _I didn’t ask_ , but then Gordon continues. “I mean, sorta. I was meant to have a free week, but… crime doesn’t take breaks, I guess.”

There’s a tense moment – or maybe it’s only tense for Oswald – where neither of them says anything. Oswald stares at the silly, absurd, crooked tie that had stolen his attention earlier, then looks lower. Now that the jacket is out of the way, he notices other things. Like the badge on Gordon’s belt. Like the empty holster.

“... FBI?” He asks carefully. 

“Mmh,” Gordon hums. He closes his eyes and sighs again. “Had some stuff going on here that _apparently_ I had to miss out on a Mets game for. Flying back home tomorrow, though. My partner’s taking me to the airport, unless my car does a miraculous recovery.” He pauses. "Which I doubt."

Oswald knows nothing of baseball, or the inner workings of federal agents, other than both seem inconvenient and irritating to him. “I see,” he says. Then, for reasons he doesn't want to think about too much, he adds, “We’re headed for the same direction, then.”

“Oh?” Gordon cracks an eye open and looks at him. “You flying, too?”

He doesn’t say, _well, I have outstanding warrants in four states which might complicate that_. Instead, Oswald shakes his head. “Never been a fan of heights, I’m afraid. Or enclosed spaces, for that matter.”

Gordon looks almost… disappointed. “Ah,” he exclaims. “Sorry to hear that.”

Nothing more is said after that. Oswald goes to change, and when he comes back, Gordon’s done the same. Oswald eyes his now exposed arms for a brief moment, before tearing his gaze away. _Not worth it._

“What did you say your name was?” Gordon asks suddenly. He’s frowning slightly, looking up at the ceiling. 

“I didn’t.”

“... Well?”

He represses a sigh. “It’s Oswald.”

“Just Oswald?”

“Just Oswald.”

Gordon nods, his expression distant as if he’s lost in thought. “Sounds familiar. We haven’t met before, have we?”

Oswald almost laughs from the absurdity of it. “I’m certain I’d remember if we had, Mr. Gordon.”

Gordon’s lips tug into a grin. “Just Jim’s fine,” he says. “It’s weird, though, I could’ve sworn I’ve seen you somewhere. Are you famous?”

 _In the way a criminal can be._ “No. Maybe I just have one of those faces.”

Jim looks him up and down, his gaze sharp and intense in a way that makes Oswald feel like taking his leave to escape the nerves suddenly gathering in his stomach. “Trust me,” he says, “your face is far from forgettable.”

Oswald doesn’t blush, but he’s not too far from it, either. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Jim smiles. “It was meant as one.”

It’s disarming enough that later, once they’ve turned the lights off and Oswald’s huddled under his thin blankets, listening to the howling wind rattle the windows, he doesn’t feel apprehension over nodding off in the presence of a man with all the authority to send him to prison, if he knew who he was sharing his room with.

It's disarming enough that when Oswald wakes up a few hours later, he only contemplates for the time it takes him to get dressed on whether he's going to be an idiot or not.

He is.

So, he leaves a note on the desk. Just in case.

_Call me?_

Just in case, he reiterates to himself, glancing at the sleeping form of Jim Gordon, snoring softly. He slips away quietly, leaving the note and his number behind. 


End file.
